


For Lovers Who Hesitate

by mutanitys (chekov)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Universe, Fluff, Genosha, Love Letters, M/M, Post-X-Men: Dark Phoenix (Movie), kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:29:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chekov/pseuds/mutanitys
Summary: Erik sends Charles postcards from his little micronation paradise of Genosha. Or at least, he tries to.





	For Lovers Who Hesitate

**Author's Note:**

> Feels so good to be writing cherik again...
> 
> I have so many fics I want to write of cherik in their smol paradise island of Genosha, but this is the first of it! Let's see how many I end up writing hehe. I hope you enjoy it! ♥
> 
> Title from the song by Jannabi of the same name!

No one's ever hailed Erik as an art connoisseur, nor praised his eye for any type of stylistic workmanship. For flamboyance and extravagance, maybe, if he counts that one snipe remark Charles made during their many fights (he can't even remember _which_ one it had been anymore)—but nothing in this postcard screams ‘byproduct-of-rage-overreaction.'

Definitely not. He's hired the best artist on the island—a bright, albeit slightly too excitable, youth by the name Brad—to work on that very handmade postcard, after all. It was a good call; Brad had been profusely enthusiastic when Erik had first approached him.

"This could kickstart a profitable line of creative exports from Genosha in the long-term!" he gushed, flitting around as he turned everything he touched into paint of different viscosities and hues. "And for us to start off with something as easily marketed as postcards and prints... that is _so smart_ of you, Mr. Lehnsherr!"

Personally, Erik thought it was _so smart_ of Brad to extrapolate his selfish wishes into a much more productive economic plan for his personal-have-turned-micronation, but he never really said that out loud. Not because he thought Brad wasn't _actually_ smart, but because he'd rather like to keep his real intentions hidden.

Erik traces the soft watercolour painting of one of Genosha's beaches with his pointer, the pale blue waves on its shores melting into dark blue depths closer to the horizon. Whitish-yellow cliffs cradle the beach, peacefully sunlit; it's the perfect picture of serenity. A sanctuary.

The hard surface of the high-grade card feels a little rough under Erik's fingertips, and the touch is almost wistful in nature, if he allowed himself to be that little bit more sentimental—but he isn't, and _won't_ be. Because when he drops _this_ in the sole mailbox they have down by the city square, this would be the tenth postcard he sends out to Charles with not so much as a hastily-written reply back.

Beside him, a nib-pen lies innocently on his hardwood work table. The act of even _picking it up_ again is so cheesy it becomes intimidating, yet Erik doesn't know what else he's supposed to do— _can_ do. He needs— _wants—_ to know, if only a little bit, despite fully realising the choice to leave had been his own and his alone.

_My old friend, Charles..._

In all his previous letters, it had always just been 'Charles', and as his fingers trace out the inky curves of the 'S' Erik immediately regrets his decision, wishing he'd picked up a pencil instead. But what's done is done—this is his tenth postcard after all (Jesus, _tenth,_ how pathetic). An extra word or two in the greetings wouldn’t harm anyone.

_Not much has happened in the last week since I last wrote to you..._

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Erik mutters under his breath, throwing the pen aside. Can he sound any more desperate? He can’t even pretend _months_ have passed since his last postcard. He knows Genosha isn't the most accessible place in the world (deliberately designed to be exactly the opposite, in fact), and mail originating from it is likely to be slow and infrequent. Likewise, no contact from or knowledge of the outside world has really reached his peripheries, so anything could be happening. An outbreak of cyclones, storms, the like. Charles being incredibly busy. Or Charles hiring someone to handle his mail who’s ordered to destroy any communication from a certain ‘Erik Lehnsherr’ upon sight.

But it's not the affairs of the entire world that he's been sitting at the edge of his seat for—not at all. Several mere sentences, _words_ even, from the world he knows and has always been strangely fond of; from _Charles_ and his silly, posh school— _that_ desire has been keeping his hands occupied writing on flimsy little postcards. At first, sending one felt like a diplomatic gesture—a peace offering, as one kingdom would present to another. The second, third and perhaps fourth postcards could all be classified as such: logistical necessity, to consolidate Genosha's self-contained peace, even in a roundabout way.

But everything else after that? Erik couldn't deny it if he wanted to—they were all for Charles.

At the moment, however, he's feeling quite hurt and angry at the realisation of events. He'd just messed up the lovely postcard Brad had painstakingly spent hours of manlabour on with his ill-chosen words, his fancy pen had just left a dark blue trail on his favourite white work shirt and the chances of Charles sending anything back to him is still slim to none.

There's a pinprick of pain behind his eyes that make his fingers twitch—tell-tales of rage surging in his chest, rattling the cans lined up along his bedroom shelf even when he bottles up the heat with a twisted mouth and furrowed brows. One can falls off its shelf--the metal nib of his pen shakes, rolling the tool onto its side—his fingers tremble, then clench—and then—

Nothing. Everything is still all of a sudden, Erik left panting as he slumps back into his creaking chair, left feeling drained and... resigned.

He picks up the pen and feels it in his every bone: resignation. There's no point in lying to himself: resignation is all he's truly felt ever since the day he'd left Charles.

* * *

If anyone bothers asking—yes, Erik _does_ have a favourite postcard. 

On a plain, white card, he’d stuck a photo of his container bunker-hideout that he snapped with the polaroid camera one of the scrappers filched off of the dumpster as they tried to find bits of scrap materials to recycle. Erik only needed to reassemble the contraption and clean off its internal mechanisms a little before it returned to working order, all in under five minutes. 

He’d taken it on a sunny day, and the corner of the picture had turned out over-exposed. He meant to throw it out, but the picture turned out dreamy and soft, like a faded picture of a family home from a long-forgotten picture album. If he holds it at an arm’s length, Erik can even pretend it’s a snapshot of the Xavier mansion’s East Wing from a distance, pretend he was around long enough to see it age and grow. 

He ended up sticking it on because it’s exactly like the kind of cheesy thing Charles would enjoy. That's all. Simple

“Coast is clear.” Ariki’s voice dredges Erik out of his musings—he’s carrying a fishing net. “I’ve taken the liberty to move the guys out now."

Erik blinks. “What time is it?”

Glancing behind him at the darkening sky, Ariki raises an eyebrow. “Close enough to dinnertime that I was starting to worry. You didn’t send a command out to bring out the moored boats. Is everything alright?"

“Of course. You’re all grown boys, aren’t you?” says Erik airily, levitating the metal pen by his hand and hoping it’ll pass off as ‘relaxed'. “You hardly need my instructions for these things.”

“Sure,” Ariki says sarcastically, rolling his eyes, but he departs nonetheless. 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Erik curses and shakes his head—how had he let the day go past him? There’s still so much to do. Yet try as he might, his mind still wanders off to the postcard he’d dropped off that very afternoon. The one of the beach sanctuary, as he calls it in his head. It’s not the first one of a coastline, or a beach that he’d sent—but it’s the one that makes him feel most vulnerable, most naked.

Truthfully, he’d picked that exact corner of the beach not because it was awfully _pretty,_ or even excitingly dangerous. He’d picked it out because it reminded him most of that day— _that_ beach, only perhaps in a different lifetime, universe, where things didn’t turn out the awful way they did—

He lets the pen clatter to the ground angrily. There’s no other way to put it—even after all this time, he’s still trying to compensate for Cuba.

* * *

And then, there was _the meeting_.

Of course he never mentioned the postcards when they crossed paths. It never felt appropriate, between a seemingly immortal alien attempting to conquer the world, a wayward alien being attempting to swallow the Earth whole (again?), getting nearly stabbed five ways to Sunday— 

Raven's death. 

Charles dealing with the loss of one of his beloved students. 

(If it hurt Erik more than he thought possible, he couldn’t imagine the pain Charles was going through.)

Nothing prepared him, after all, for the onslaught of emotions at the sight of Charles again—only amplified when he remembered the cold shoulder he’d been given, the absolute _refusal_ of an acknowledgement from Charles. He’d always considered Charles his only friend, no matter how different their philosophies, no matter the rifts that come between them over the years—there was a strange sort of reassurance in knowing that their mutual fondness runs deeper than friendship, in knowing that they care about each other. In knowing Charles would still always be there, if Erik ever needed him. 

Erik _had_ needed him, made it obviously so, and not a word was sent back. 

Maybe Charles didn’t feel the same way, after all. 

So Erik couldn’t help it—not even a 'hello' was exchanged before the past and present frustrations curdle into a biting remark Erik knew would cut into the even the toughest part of Charles' pride:

_"You're always sorry, Charles, and there's always a speech—but nobody cares anymore."_

It’s several months after the incident, but Erik still can’t get it out of his mind, his own words echoing in his mind like a broken film reel on loop. 

"Was I too... sharp?” he mutters, flicking off a coin against the wall and catching it seamlessly, only to see it crumbling under his fist when he unclenches it. He groans, both at the memory and at the ruined coin. "I _was_ too sharp."

Selene, clearly seeing no obvious added value to the conversation, just rolls her eyes. "I think I'm missing a decade's worth of history here, or something, because I have no idea what to tell you."

"Three, actually."

"I'm sorry?"

Erik turns to her, brows furrowing. He never really confided about this to anyone, but Selene's as trustworthy as anyone will ever get to him around here. "Three decades of history. Close to four."

Selene, with her always-unfazed personality that makes her so trustworthy, actually raises an eyebrow. "You guys... really need to talk."

A derisive bark of laughter leaves Erik's mouth unbidden. "Trust me, we've tried. It always ends in near-murder."

"I don't mean being smart and snarky the way you always are around _his_ people, Erik," counters Selene, and this has Erik looking up from his coin pieces. She's leaning against the wall, examining her nails like she can't give a single damn, but he know from the hardness in her voice that she's giving him advice as a concerned friend. "You can be sincere when you want to be, you know. I don't know if it's pride, or past trauma, or other complicated things I wouldn't want to touch with a five-mile pole... but _something_ always stops you from getting to _that_ stage."

"What stage?"

Erik's never really allowed anyone in the same way he did when he was younger despite the like-mindedness that glues every member of Genosha so well. Time and again the universe has a unique way of showing him it's an unwise habit to get into, and he's done well to stay away from it--but as Selene pierces him with a seemingly knowing gaze, Erik realises perhaps he's been starved of intimacy more acutely than he like to admit.

"The stage where you're actually being _honest_."

* * *

When he hears about the school, Charles and Paris, he feels a little selfish for thinking this is _finally_ his _chance._

But he packs a duffel bag in a heartbeat, leaves Selene in a charge and, as a last-minute decision, stuffs his dusty chess set in with his clothes. Just in case.

* * *

"It's very... _you,_ " says Charles once Erik concludes his 'Genosha-in-five-minutes' pitch, like he's a salesman trying to persuade an important investor. Erik has a distinct feeling that their chess game is going to end prematurely, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

"What?"

"A very _Erik_ solution to an ultimately _Erik_ problem."

He frowns, feeling slightly indignant. "It's not just _my_ problem, many mutants feel the same wa-"

"A _micronation,_ " muses Charles, indifferent to Erik's protests. "And it's self-sufficient?"

"Entirely." If Erik preens a little, it's only because he's _proud_.

"My word," Charles chuckles, shaking his head, expression a little sombre. "You must have thought I was so silly, acting like I was the big shot, parading around the White House, waving to every camera pointed at me, while there you were... quite literally building a country for yourself." He looks up. "And they called _me_ the politician."

"'m not a politician," grouses Erik. "And I had no idea what you were doing. A little self-containment comes with the self-sufficiency, I suppose."

"I wish I knew of this earlier. It sounds... well, it sounds intriguing, really."

"Just intriguing?" hedges Erik, hoping it isn't too early for a bit of jest.

By the cheeky eye-roll from Charles it isn't. "Alright. It sounds quite _marvelous._ " He picks up his drink with a chuckle. "Can't believe you never sent me even a single _postcard!_ "

Erik's blood freezes over. "You didn't get any of them?"

"Get what?"

"My postcards."

Charles' glass of orange juice pauses mid-motion, and Erik wishes he'd just drunk the wine Erik had ordered. Though not a lightweight by any means, maybe the slight buzz would have made Charles less incredulous by his confession. Made the confession less real.

The small dose of alcohol hasn't lessened Erik's embarrassment in the very least, though, so maybe it wouldn’t have worked like he wanted (whoever dubbed the beverage 'liquid courage' must have been a right coward indeed).

Charles blinks. "You sent _postcards_?"

"I had no way of electronically transmitting a message in an isolated island, did I—"

Somehow, every other word uttered seems to make Charles’ eyes go even wider. "You're not joking."

"I sent you... a few, over the years. But you never replied, so I gave up soon enough," lies Erik.

Charles must have seen the exact moment abject self-consciousness register on Erik's face because his frown falls to make way for a smirk.

"Never thought you'd be one for writing letters, Erik."

“They weren't _letters_ ," he grumbles, nudging the chessboard a little as he swipes at his wine glass. The game is getting predictable anyway—Charles _always_ wins. "They were... updates. Headlines. Like Genoshian newspaper, if you will."

"Uh-huh," acquiesces Charles, and here he actually has the audacity to rest his chin on his palm. "And why did I have the honour of receiving _'a few_ ' issues of it?"

By now, Charles has a full-blown grin on his lips, laughter seeping out at its edges. Erik hasn't felt the intrusive prod of Charles' mind anywhere near his, yet, but he wouldn't be surprised if he's projecting a certain number like a loudspeaker with boosted batteries. For a moment, Erik can fool himself into thinking that the past three or decades of betrayal, heartbreak, horrible decisions and pain never existed, and that this is all they've ever known—the warm Paris afternoon, oblivious humans in their midst and a harmless chessboard between them.

But to forget, Erik knows, is only a hopeless fantasy achieved by forced ignorance—and to do that is to disrespect what they've overcome together and apart as friends, as enemies, as _beings_. Just as Erik has made decisions he'd regretted, Charles inevitably has as well. Erik is seeing the effects here first hand. The way only moments prior Charles' facade has been shuttered off, his shoulders hunched in defensively and his eyes terrified, confused, hurt and guarded all at once.

A layer of mischief breaks away from Charles as he leans back, expression more sober. Less giddy. He starts rearranging the pieces for a new game Erik hasn't even agreed to. "I understand if you were... curious about how things were going. How _some_ of us were doing. It's only natural; you re-built the place as much as Jean did."

Erik can toss the ball out of his field again, inciting once more the back-and-forth snipe remarks they exchange that he's come to get used to, comfortable with—so much so that it's in danger of being the only way of talking to Charles he's capable of.

The first step, though, has been taken. It wouldn't make sense to lapse back into false comfort. Erik's reminded Charles that he _has_ done good (saving Erik's life, and countless others) and that he can _continue_ doing good.

Unthinkingly, Erik reaches out to clasp Charles' hand; tries to convey every though he's unable to put into words into a single squeeze—a reassurance that Erik is here _with him_ , that Charles doing what he thinks is _good_ can lead to a happy ending.

"I wrote them..." he hesitates, but steels himself when he thinks of Selene with her deadpan words at his workshop in Genosha. "I wrote them because I wanted to hear from you."

Charles looks up, his movements stilled by Erik's hand. He is still, _so_ still—but hasn't pulled away so Erik keeps going, trusts the feeling deep in his gut.

"I didn't really know why I wrote the first few. I gave myself all kinds of excuses; worried about the school, worried about current affairs, worried about the _house_ , for god's sake. I knew I was acting like all the people I hated—afraid to take responsibility, to face the facts."

When Erik doesn't continue, Charles' hand shifts underneath his—gentle. Always so gentle.

"And what are those facts, Erik?" he asks.

There isn't a single thread of sarcasm in Charles' voice; no hint of bitterness or of jest, of hurt underneath a mask of indifference. There is only sincere curiosity, and maybe— _maybe_ —just a dash of hope.

Erik can only answer Charles in kind.

"There was only one fact, all along," he says quietly. "The fact was that I missed you, Charles."

Being _this_ vulnerable after a long, long time should feel a little like stepping onto thin air and falling into the indeterminate depths of a chasm, or caved in by the pitch darkness of uncertainty—but it doesn't. Instead, it feels a lot like the unraveling of metal bands around his chest, like Erik's finally floating and _weightless_.

Charles frowns, bares his eyes to Erik’s own. He’s always so indecipherable. "How quickly?"

"What?"

"How quickly did you give up? Sending me those postcards."

Erik takes a deep breath—it rattles in his chest. "I sent you no less than twelve,” he admits, and the knit between Charles’ brows loosen. "I gave up, but not quickly enough.”

Suddenly, Erik simultaneously wishes they were somewhere more private, but also thankful for the distraction the crowd provides, less all of this goes downhill. 

“I know it’s a lot—it hasn’t been the easiest road, and it’s—maybe it’s naive, for me to have this wish,” continues Erik, stilted. He has a track record of saying the wrong things at the wrong time when it comes to Charles; and he doesn’t want that happening now. “But I want us… I want _us_ , Charles. To be good again.”

He steels himself before chancing a squeeze.

“That’s all I want, now. Do you think it’s possible?”

They’ve tried this and failed so many times, in so many variations—but never has Erik truly, _really_ meant it like he does in that moment, with no ulterior motives, no buried agenda, no uncertainties and distrust slithering under his skin, beneath his subconscious. His mind, soul, _life_ feels like a blank slate, and he wants Charles to be the first to feature in it.

Charles eventually breaks into a real, genuine smile, like he knew what was in Erik’s mind. Maybe he did, somehow, without Erik’s knowledge—at the moment, Erik can’t find it in himself to care.

“Something I’ve learnt about you over the years, Erik, is that when you want something, nothing and no one can get in your way. Not even me.” Charles’ eyes go soft, and his smile— _god, that smile_ —grows even wider. “So if you want this—yes. Yes, I think it’s very, very possible.”

“But what about _you?_ ”

Charles leans in and says, in a quiet but determined voice, “Yes. I want that too, very much.”

Erik feels empowered enough conquer the world, at that affirmation—but instead, he closes the gap between them and hopes to God Charles won’t sock him in the face for kissing him in the middle of a crowded outdoor cafe in a Parisian street.

Thankfully, Charles doesn’t. 

* * *

**(Epilogue)**

It still takes Charles a bit of effort to wheel into their shared unit (yes, he refuses to call it a _bunker_ because it reminds him of wars, despite it being part of Genosha's domestic vernacular by now). Nothing to complain about the tireless efforts of the construction team, of course—Charles had even chided Erik for pulling them out of more important projects to spend months landscaping practically _every corner_ of Genosha to make it wheelchair-friendly, but Erik, of course, had been immovable. 

"This _is_ of utmost priority, Charles," he gives him a look that is part stern, part goading. "Or would you rather I _float_ you all around the island?"

Suffice to say, Charles gives up fighting quickly after that. He doesn't pester Erik any more (secretly, he kind of enjoys being an 'utmost priority'), but he also doesn't tell Erik that he's been taking off the exhaustion from his workers a little each day, at least the mental part. He still feels a little guilty for their borderline overworked condition.

Only the uneven ground before the slope leading to their door is the problem right now—the ground there is quite stubborn—but soon, Charles finds himself pushing through the newly-installed door, thankful to be away from the glaring island sun. He still needs to get used to the heat and humidity, but it's a welcome change.

Except his wheel gets stuck right by the entrance, and he looks down to see a massive stack of _paper_. 

Frowning, he picks one up, and realises it's an envelope. "Erik?" he calls out. "Darling, you may have missed the postman this morning." 

"Hmm?" A clatter, before Erik's head pops out from behind a screen that sections off his 'garage' from their living space. "Oh. Right. We finally got our mailing system internationally authorised."

"So you decided to send many, many congratulatory cards to yourself?" jokes Charles, flipping through the endless envelopes before his fingers come across a hard surface—it feels like coarse card paper.

"I didn't know we had to do that, so all our previous mail's been classed as invalid and were backlogged. And since we weren't authorised, they couldn't be sent back. Until today." Erik's gone back to tinkering with something in his garage, away from Charles' vantage point. "I was going to get Ariki to sort them out later."

Charles brings the slip of paper in question and realises it's a postcard—of a beach, no less. It's a watercolour painting, so skilfully done that Charles can almost hear the sound of the waves lapping the white-golden shore as he traces the image with a finger.

He has, in fact, heard them, on that very same beach from that very same angle. Just last week.

He flips the card over and chokes back a noise as his eyes take in the words, with the distinct feeling that they've come from an age long-forgotten—Erik's scribble, the effort to keep it neat evident in every curve—

_My old friend, Charles..._

Erik is still saying something, but it all fades to white noise as Charles reads the short postcard, laughing at Erik's obviously repressed greetings, formally-told anecdotes, awkward phrasings. It reads, really, like a newspaper: detached updates of what has taken place, the plans Erik has in mind. If anything, it's a little self-centric, and seeing nothing particularly sentimental in it, Charles has half a mind to bring it to Erik's attention—until he reaches the last lines:

_It would be better if you were here to see it, too._

_It's been a while, Charles._

He reads it over and over again, but the words don't change. They aren't just a figment of his imagination.

All these years, Charles thought Erik had wanted nothing to do with him—had shunned even the idea of spending an extended period of time with him. But this postcard—a _relic_ of their past—for it to say otherwise—

"Erik?" Charles calls out before he can change his mind. "Can you come here for a minute?"

"Yeah, sure." The rattle of the screen being pulled back bounces off the quiet room, and after a few moments Erik is beside him, smelling strangely of sweat and saltwater and _himself._ "Do you need anythi—"

Charles' mouth is on him before he can finish his sentence—gentle, but insistent, because a postcard shouldn't make Charles want to kiss Erik senseless but it _does_ and he realises with a strange, tingly feeling that he _can_ , if he wants to. That Erik is only an arm's length away most of the time, that he's beside him—warm and alive and fond.

"I'm here now," he breathes into the space between their lips, eyes tightly shut as he tries to _show_ Erik what he'd read—what it makes him feel, all the love and affection flooding him, waves upon waves. "I'm here with you. To see everything."

He can feel the second the thoughts reach Erik—he tenses up, embarrassment replacing the initial surprise of Charles' abrupt kiss before hands come up to cradle Charles' cheeks, coarse yet so, so gentle. 

"I thought I removed them all from the pile," he breathes out, chuckle coming out a little nervous. "I thought... I thought this one got lost in the mail."

"I'm glad you missed it, then," Charles says, kissing him again gently. Just because he can. "Was this the last one you sent?"

He shakes his head, still pressed against Charles. "No. The tenth. But it's one of my favourite."

"It's beautiful," Charles pulls back to gaze at the postcard again, unable to help the grin on his face. "You know, this is my favourite beach around here. Out of the ones I've explored, anyway."

"I knew you'd like it. I wanted..." Erik trails, voice catching on a more down-trodden note. "I want you to like beaches."

It sounds harmless, but enough for Charles to catch on his intentions and smile up at Erik. "Erik, I've forgiven you a long time ago."

The lines on Erik's face fade a little, and Charles smiles again.

"But I certainly won't forgive you if you won't let me read the ones you've stowed away!"

Erik laughs then, and Charles feels like he can drown in the sound forever. "Of course, Charles. Tonight." A pause, then he's clutching Charles close, fingers digging into his back. "You're here. You're here with me."

Making promises to each other before had felt like thinly-veiled lies.

"I am, darling," Charles whispers. "Always."

Yet strangely, this one doesn't sound so far-fetched.


End file.
